


Wishing you Well

by blueberryscowler



Category: Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica - James A. Owen
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Love, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberryscowler/pseuds/blueberryscowler
Summary: Happy 100th Anniversary of the day John, Jack and Charles first met, and happy Caretaker Day. This was not as easy and comfortable for me to write as last year's entry. It is because I have had a pretty stressful time during the last weeks, combined with a kind of writer's block, general confusion, and difficulties in finding the right mood of the Archipelago. I tried to wait, and suddenly the Caretaker Day came, much earlier than I expected it to be. Since the opening of the challenge, I have made many attempts in writing my entry, and all of them failed and were deleted. What I have written now, during the last few days in a sudden rush of finding myself into it all again, is quite a bit different from the original assignment, yet it is all I could do in the time I have shortened myself. So if you are in any way unhappy with it, I'd be so glad to write you an alternative story. Just contact me, and I will do my best to write something you prefer. Perhaps you will still like it, despite not focusing as much on Aven, Artus and Jack as expected. I have tried to include several relationships, and did all of it awkwardly, yet I hope I have turned it all into a nice package.





	1. The Waste Paper Treasure Bin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaliciousVegetarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliciousVegetarian/gifts).



Warnie had a sad brother, tea leaves, and no rum. A difficult situation, especially on a rainy day in March, when the mad hares hid in rabbit holes while the rabbits were outsides founding families. Nature was reorganising itself, the dogs were shedding and the squirrels rubbed their eyes with tiny little hands. It was cold, wet, and generally uncomfortable, but the air smelled of Spring and even the birds would have sung if they had dared to leave their nests. And just like the birds, Warnie stayed in his nest and silently watched the water boil. His brother had left the house an hour ago, to go on a walk he said, and so Warnie felt pretty lonely and blue, as though Jack had infected him with his mood.  
  
Especially, he thought, because he had to drink plain, boring tea. He had sugar, sure, and cream. Even lemons. But the rum magically disappeared from the kitchen and Warnie assumed it would be hidden in Jacksie's so-called office.  
  
“That's what happens when younger brother believe to be older,” the actual older brother said to himself. “Play the babysitter and hide the _dangerous liquids_.” Perfect, warming, and golden liquid, to be fair. And badgers? They love it! Not as a drink however, but to polish their Principles. I'm strolling off...  
  
Warnie - rumless and having a run on the nest, uh, house, in the middle of making tea on a rainy day on March – went to find a bobby pin. Do not assume the Lewis brothers, two bachelors in their best years, to own bows or frills or even bobby pins but one of the girls, who used to visit them occasionally, often left hair utensils around their house. She was the niece of a friend, a very nice girl, a bit awkward, talked to an owl.  
  
The other girl who has visited the kilns a few times, a true angel, never used bobby pins for her unruly hair, but she carried them around nonetheless. She had developed a brilliant technique of lock picking by the tender age of nine, and Warnie had always been a grateful and observant student.  
  
It's never housebreaking if the room belongs to your sibling. This, too, is a principle, although it doesn't bring you anywhere. However, Warnie lived well with it for decades, and so did Jack. Neither brother knew that they, indeed, shared the same principle within the same house.  
  
Finding a bottle of rum inside a dark, dusty, and overstocked room, full of books, and papers, and old furniture, is not as easy as it might seem at first. It was not within a cabinet or a drawer, neither could he find it in a lamp or below a chair, all of them places his brother frequently used to hide things from him. He sighed and took the waste paper bin from below the desk, uncertain if he wanted the rum to be there, or not.  
  
“It would be such a shame if he had put it there,” Warnie said to himself. “Hullo, what is this?”  
  
Instead of ripped or crumpled paper, or other junk, he found a perfect new bottle of rum – and something even more interesting: a perfect pile of letters, all stacked up on each other. The one on top had, instead of an address, a word written on it, in the most beautiful handwriting Jack was capable of.  
  
Under normal circumstances, Warnie would have ignored the letters – they were none of his business, and Jack apparently did not want anyone to see them. But Jack behaved strangely for a long time now. And when he had nightmares, he always called the word Warnie now knew to be a name. Years ago, Jack had another phase of this kind, and it had been resolved through the visit of two old friends of him, and through the angel, who taught him to lock pick.  
  
Now, Jack had been sad again for quite a few weeks, working little, sleeping less, but hardly leaving his office or bed, unless it was to take a walk, on his own, and in the rain. Warnie frowned and took the upper letter, only to find an identical one below, and so he took the next one. It was a stack of two dozen letters, and all of them said nothing but _Aven_.  
  
  
The rat handed the crow a pencil, then a sheet of paper, both of them small, but neat. The crow was polite, and said “Thank you,” and the rat nodded and went back to his usual place of work.  
  
“What a good day it is to do our work,” said the crow, as he said everyday.  
  
The other crows and rats, and the mice, and the hedgehogs, and the toads all said “O boy, it surely is!” and continued their work, as they did everyday. They were not unhappy, and they liked what they did, but it felt not particularly exciting after all these years. Some of them wondered if Solomon Kaw put on a show, to support their work ethics. But in truth, Solomon Kaw saw his work through the eyes of a husband, and although he had never married, we can be sure of one thing: in his mind, the honeymoon would have been eternal, and his love would have never grown old.  
  
Through all his dryness, respectability, and diligence, he was a romantic at heart, with the excitability of a boy. In this one matter, he was just like his sovereign.  
  
Solomon Kaw was working on the restoration of an old Nubian fairy tale book, when the young king came in, took a seat near him, and rested his hand on the soft leather case of an early medieval romance, a sweet irony only the crow noticed, and not the fair haired monarch.  
  
Artus looked younger than he was, and felt younger than he looked. He was unusually pretty, not handsome or masculine, but pretty. He was a sweet boy, and a gentle mind. He did not look brave to most knights or hostile commanders. He was brave, and even more valiant, most of all courageous. As a child he dreamed of being a great knight, a strong warrior, but when he grew up he learned that he was not like that. He was not reckless or daring, but noble and responsible. Some thought him to be a sweet faced and gentle voiced coward, but Artus never feared for himself.  
  
“Solomon Kaw,” he said after a while, and the bird listened, without looking up from his work. “I am worried. It's Stephen, he is behaving strangely these days.”  
  
Solomon Kaw continued his work until he had properly repaired one, frail page. Then he looked into the king's eyes. “Boys can be like that at that age, it will pass in a while. Of course, I have not raised many children... I have raised his father.”  
  
Artus chuckled bitterly and closed his eyes again. “If you think so. I wish Aven was here. She always knows the right thing to say.”  
  
The archivist restored another page, then looked up again. “She would take both of your heads and smash them together... your highness.” He continued his work.  
  
“You see, that's why I miss her. Nobody else would do such a thing.”  
  
  
Warnie held one letter in the steam of his tea, until it opened on its own. He didn't feel well doing so, but he also felt responsible for his younger brother. And yes, he was curious. He sighed and looked at it, there was no heading or date.  
  
  
_Your Majesty,  
  
I am a man of words more than actions in most matters of life. It is the opposite in matters of this specific kind of love. A different man would find a way to show his feelings on paper. Charles, for example, would know just what to say. He would tell sweet and profound things about sherbet and golden cups, rainy nights of repose, and windy days of illumination.  
  
You are the wind of the East, my Queen, always sailing away from me. You are a lioness, in love with a butterfly, and I am merely a bookworm, admiring both of you from the dusty pages of my scholarly life.  
  
I long for the rain of your nights, for our water cannot still my thirst any more. Oxford may be the dream of a young badger, but it is the prison of an ageing bachelor, madly in love with a beautiful and dangerous siren. Do you see, just how silly I am? Hugo Dyson could have found better words (and better suited for the taste of a pirate!) and here I am stammering love drunken nonsense._  
  
 _Speaking of piracy, I wonder what you are doing these days. From what I have heard (which is not a lot lately) the economy of Paralon is pretty stable (apples never go out of style, it seems!) but some smaller isles are having problems. Are you in a fight right now, or helping someone out? A mouse told me of the Prince's good development, said he's big and strong and still gentle and a smart boy to say the least. You and the King are doing great work, and so is the Traveller. I love them, but most of all beings in the worlds, I love you._  
  
 _In Admiration,_  
_a mere Fool_  
  
  
The fool's elder brother took a bite from a ginger biscuit and frowned at the letter, then put it back into its envelope, and finished his cup of tea. He took the bottle and letter, and went back to Jack's office, placed both where they belonged.  
  
  
The hedgehogs carried tiny little books around, none of them larger than a thumbnail. Artus watched them and thought of how much Stephen loved playing with them when he was younger. Now, he would just make a very grown up face, and leave. The King missed his Queen, and not only because she would know what do to with their Prince.  
  
  
The beautiful pirate let her long, dark hair down the well, knowing it would not touch the water. Small children, most of them dressed in nothing but nightgowns, panties, and frail shirts, ran around her, and some of them wore wings, and all of them wore thimbles. She sighed, took her hair up again, and left for a walk.  
  
  
A middle aged man sat on a bank near a small forest. He had a round face, and smoked a cigarette, and to the young students who passed him saw nothing but their professor, and not a heart broken soldier boy who prayed to Astraeus that he would lead him to a woman, or a wish.

 


	2. Of Unexpected Journeys

Two little girls sat in a tree and ate peppermint fudge. They would have also liked chocolate, but cocoa was expensive these days and Lost Boys rarely had much money. In fact, they had no money at all, and so they went to find a peppermint fudge tree, and indeed, they were lucky.  
  
“I like this colour,” said one girl, a small and tender child, pointing at the setting sun, shining in a bright shade of orange, in contrast to deep indigo.  
  
“So do I,” said the other one, who was a bit older (still little) and who appeared not nearly as frail. “But it makes me sad. It makes me want to...”  
  
She was interrupted by a boy, not Lost any more, who waved from beneath them. He was much older than them, close to manhood, and he had a pleasant face. “Good morning, you loveliest pair of thieves I know, have you seen the Queen?”  
  
“Queen?” repeated the older girl. “We knows no Queen, no King, no Princess, or Prince.”  
  
The smaller girl added: “We have seen a Pirate, beautiful and dangerous, and we greeted her and touched her hair. She was like a Queen to me.” The older girl pinched her leg, and she winced and kicked back.  
  
“Where is she?”  
  
“North.”  
  
The boy went South.  
  
  
Jack was offered a cup of hot tea, from a very familiar hand. He looked up in surprise, and nearly smiled.  
  
“Hello, Warnie,” he said. “I did not expect you to come here... with a cup of tea, in particular.”  
  
Warnie smiled and sat beside him. “A thermos, actually,” he said as he held up the bottle. “A mere cup would have been quite an inconvenience in this weather. You better drink quickly until the rain thins out your tea.”  
  
“Or the rum,” said Jack as he had just taken his first sip. He scowled at his brother.  
  
“That is one thing I want to talk to you about... not the rum,” he added as Jack raised an eyebrow. “The place where you hid it...”  
  
Jack nearly spilled his tea, and looked at the elder Lewis in shock. “You snooped around! Don't you have any sense of privacy?”  
  
Warnie shrugged and sat beside his upset brother. “Yes, I did, and I am sorry. But I also worry about your well-being, just as you care about mine.”  
  
Jack growled slightly, but didn't say anything, watched the rain fall instead, and drank tea. Good tea, to be fair. Good rum, too. Warnie chose lemons over cream.  
  
“Tell me, who is Aven?” asked Warnie and Jack stared at him for a while, turned around, said nothing for another while. A few minutes, two cups of tea, and a plenty of rain later, he answered.  
  
  
An old raccoon entered the Great Whatsit, with a cookie in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other. He greeted a few unicorn mice, said “Hullo, old chap,” to a natural owl, and sat on a cosy green velvet chair. Then, the raccoon put his glass of milk on a small nearby table, and took a book from a shelf beside him.  
  
 _The Greatest Collection of Canine Storytelling & Poetry of the 12_ _th_ _Century with annotations by Ysengrimus_ was written in large silver letters all over the old leather cover. He did not open the book, he waited for someone to join him. He looked around, finished his cookie, thought about his plans for the next week, finished his glass of milk, combed his tail, chatted with a hedgehog (“Edwin the Elk has bought a new holiday home on Bali Ha'i, can you believe it? In these uncertain times?” - “Well, you never know what other people have in mind.”), and finally decided he had waited too long.  
  
“Your Majesty,” he began as he had entered another room in the great library, “I am afraid the Prince is skipping his class today. I _know_ all he wants to be is a pirate, but education never hurt anybody. I beg you to talk to him, he always loved his literature class in the past.”  
  
Artus raised himself from his pillow (which was a book) and sighed, his eyes dim. “I am afraid there is not much I can do about this. I cannot connect with him any more. Perhaps Aven will, when she comes home.” _Ideally yesterday_ , he added silently.  
  
Solomon Kaw sniffed. “You are both making too big a deal of it – young men such as him skip classes, just as you did, Sire, and they behave strangely at times.” Then, he finished repairing his book and went on to finish a cup of strong tea instead. He had cheese with it.  
  
Horace, the raccoon, frowned, but said nothing, as she watched the crow drink tea, and the king rest his head on another book, this time Roman cupcake recipes. He sighed and left the great library, only to find a confused looking Son of Adam leaning against a wall. He was not young by the standards of the Summer Country (and it was obvious that he _was_ from the Summer Country) but not too old, either. He smelled of lemons and even more so of rum.  
  
“Do you need help, my friend?” the raccoon asked and the man looked at him with large, surprised eyes.  
  
“So it is true,” he said, not blinking even once.  
  
“What is true?” asked the raccoon. “That animals talk over here, I suppose? Or that the Great Whatsit still exists?”  
  
This question did not help much, and the man cautiously stepped back. He looked a bit like another man Horace knew, but he was older and thinner. His voice was similar, though not as rich and warm. He was an Oxford Scowler, for sure, and he was also some sort of Lewis, an earlier specimen.  
  
“Do you need any help, sir?” asked Horace. “You seem disoriented, and frightened. Let us go in to have a warm meal, as good food calms tense nerves general queasiness.”  
  
The unusual man politely, but haltingly accepted the offer, and followed the small animal – which, to his amazement walked an his hind legs and wore a forest green jacket – into a small hut, which looked like a tiny on the inside. Warnie had to bend over to not hit his head on the ceiling, and had even more trouble when trying to sit on a chair. The walls were all painted in forest colours, with some light dots in between, and the windows were framed brightly yellow gingham curtains. The table had short legs, but a wide surface, and the chairs all looked like teddy bears – Warnie supposed, they were made for children, and later used by the small mammal.  
  
Horace used the kitchen utensils and the stove with a surprising finesse, considering the composition of his tiny paws. Near the sink was a washboard, and Warnie had a hard time not to laugh about the thought of a raccoon using it.  
  
“Cheese omelet with leek and blackberries, bon appetite!” Horace said and handed Warnie a considerably large plate, then got himself a similar one. Raccoons ate a lot, despite their small size. In fact, they were even more fond of food than badgers, which few people thought to be possible, and since raccoons were less likely to interact with humans (Horace was an exception, who left his forest) than badgers, despite having lesser difficulties in learning their languages. If you hear a typical badger talk English, you will most likely notice a thick, yet charming accent. If you ever have the chance of hearing a raccoon talk English, or any other human language, they will sound just like you. However, most raccoons you will meet are going to say “Breeeaaarrrrb,” while most badgers will be saying “Brrreaaaaaargh.”  
  
As they have finished their meal in an awkward silence, Horace was the first one to speak. “Mr... Lewis? You are a Lewis, right? You smell like it, like Oxford, beneath the other odours. What has brought you here? Where is your cousin? Or brother?”  
  
“My brother yes, he has brought me here, but he arrived somewhere else. It was all so fast. He went... through a card, yes. A playing card. And so did I, yet it was not the same card. He had plenty of them on his writing desk, and I didn't know what he was up to as he touched one, and because of my dreadful curiosity I touched another, and I just saw him disappear through his card, as I have been drawn into mine...” He talked slowly, and hesitantly. It was a bit too much for him to be fair.  
  
Horace frowned and went up to make some coffee. “Why did you both even play around with these cards? What does Scowler Clive” - Horace, for some reason, never called him _Jack_ \- “want? Caretakers are not supposed to show too much to others, not even their brothers. And I have heard of nothing going on in the Archipelago that would need his help.”  
  
Warnie sighed, and nearly smiled. “My little brother is lovesick and blue.”  
  
“Lovesick and blue? That surely is an emergency, if you ask the people who think like that. What is the subject of his love like?”  
  
“Beautiful, but wise, and loving, yet fierce, he said. Graceful, tall, and great with words.”  
  
“Sound admirable. Was their relationship physical?”  
  
“She punched him a few times.”  
  
“Adorable. Well, where is the problem? Does she love someone else?”  
  
Warnie sighed. “Yes, she does, but that is not the problem. He is not jealous, but fond of him too. He simply longs to see her again, they have been parted for so long.”  
  
Horace put some milk, sugar, cocoa, and star anise in beautiful tiny cups that looked like they had just come out of a child's doll china collection, with small foxes painted on the outsides.  
  
“What did Scowler Clive's Trump, I mean card, look like?” asked the raccoon as he poured in the strong coffee, and Warnie made a very serious face – a thinking face, one can sometimes see on longbeards.  
  
“There was a well, and plenty of angels, like the one who ruined my bluebells.”  
  
Horace had no idea what had happened to Warnie's bluebells, but he could guess where the younger Lewis had went. And he was not the only visitor over there.  
  
  
The young man greeted an apple tree, and shook hands with another boy his age, then hugged a skittish looking girl, and picked up a baby, and took a seat on a swing. Like them, he wore a thimble on a chain around his neck. Not out of necessity any more, but for the nostalgia, and the feeling of safety he connected it to. It was a habit he would never move away from.  
  
“Ay havn't seen ya in a while, havn't ay? We bin seilin' and reighnin' and I been studying, but it got me no more happiness than flying with you.” He sounded so much different, using this language.  
  
“I knows dis be true,” said a boy with a long ponytail and bright eyes. He might have been ten, eleven at best. “I tried some edoocation, got a headache, an' began to tawk like a Scowlie-brow.”  
  
“Children don't have headaches, said the Scowlie-brow Doc I bin to at the hospital on the big isle. He said they just don't,” said a girl. “Such a twittybrain. Bet he never had one as a kid, because he had no brain to hurt, and when he got headaches as a longbeard it was because his grown up noggin felt so empty.”  
  
All of them laughed, and Stephen the loudest, despite his sad eyes. None of them noticed the longbearded (yet clean shaven) Scowlie-brow near their beloved well. He looked inside of it, and found a single long hair, incredibly strong, and dark as the stormiest night on the sea.

 


	3. The Three (And More) Met Again

“A letter for the King,” said the large pigeon. “A letter for the King! Highly important, written by a stripetail! Important! Important!”  
  
Artus looked up from the book he was repairing (he decided that it was better to help the crows, instead just daydreaming of simpler times) and replaced the letter in the pigeons foot with a lye roll he intended to eat later. Pigeons always got food as payment, but as Artus rarely expected mail (he had staff for this kind of thing, after all) he rarely carried something suitable around. The bird looked at it, frowned, but did not seem unhappy. Sunflower seeds were simply boring after a while.  
  
  
 _Your Majesty,_  
  
 _I cannot find the Prince anywhere in the castle, and the badgers and magpies cannot find him anywhere on Paralon. One of the smaller faux Dragonships is gone with him, the yellow one, if that is of interest._  
  
 _I have a visitor from the Summer Country, and we are going to see his brother – your friend, Oxford Scowler Clive Staples Lewis – Underneath, by the Well. We are preparing a ship now, and ask you to join us. It might you all._  
  
 _Under the Mercy, a well-read raccoon_  
  
  
Artus read the short letter a few times, then got up abruptly, and left the Great Whatsit without a word. Solomon Kaw didn't mind, nor did the others. They had plenty to do on their own.  
  
  
Poppy sat on a Cliff and gazed across the sea. Birds and children flew above her, hardly distinguishable from each other. They were all beautiful and free. She visited Neverland once or twice a year, spent some time with the Lost Boys, looked into the well, and let her thoughts run free. It was not a happy place for her, she could never be truly happy in the Underneath. The children were cheerful, but deep down, they were sad, and few of them noticed. It was a good place for them, because they would be truly Lost and alone most everywhere else. They are safe, and have companions. But for Aven, there has always been some kind of melancholy connected to it. She visited this place because of her old (yet young looking) friends, and because of some sort of nostalgia. And because nobody would ask what she was feeling, or thinking, or going to do. She could wander around freely for a few days, and she could play, and dream, and cry. Even pirates and queens have to be children once in a while.  
  
“It is true, women should not become pirates. After a while, they enter a safe isle where they can play tea time!” said a voice from behind her, and so she turned around and punched the man in the face, causing him to fall on his back.  
  
“I missed you, too, my Queen,” he said as he gathered himself up again. “O Jack, I am so glad to see you again,” said she and embraced him so tightly that he could hardly breath.  
  
“Take care, Aven, I am an old man,” he said and laughed. She looked at him and knew he was right. He might not have been truly _old_ but he did not look the way she knew him. She hadn't changed a bit.  
  
“Tell me,” he said after a while. “What happened since he have last met?”  
  
“Besides you losing your hair? Well, I guess there's been nothing too significant, but still quite a lot...”  
  
  
The two girls went home as the stars began to show up on the darkening sky, and walked without talking much. The older one was lost in thought about the Prince, and the younger one still had the Queen's face in front of her inner eye. They went South to their village, and saw three figures walking into the same direction, about 160 feet in front of them. Two of them were very tall, and the other one much shorter, even shorter than most Lost Boys. He had a tail, found the smaller girl.  
  
“Good evenin', can we be helpin' ya?” she asked and the three strangers turned around to see them. One of them reminded her of an old friend.  
  
“Indeed, you can,” said the other large one. He was younger and had fair hair. “Have you seen a young man? Dark hair and eyes, tall, with a thimble such as yours?”  
  
“I assume you mean Stephen?” said the little girl, and the older one made a hissing noise.  
  
“Yes, I mean him,” he said.  
  
“He went North,” said the older girl. It was a lie, but her instinct told her to never trust longbeards, especially when they wanted to know about the whereabouts of a fellow Lost Boy.  
  
“And my brother? Have you seen Jack Lewis?” asked the other tall man. He looked at them, and their wings, in amazement. They were just like the girl in his bluebells.  
  
“Went North, too,” came the answer, which was not a lie. She liked Jack, but he was a longbeard and needed no special protection.  
  
“Thank you so much,” the older man said, and the three of them changed their direction (the short one was a raccoon), and passed the two girls, handing each of them a small chocolate bar from the raccoons suitcase as a reward. They were not unhappy about this deal, and continued their walk.  
  
  
Stephen laughed and sang and played with the younger Lost Boys, then helped an older girl repair her sword (it was gorgeous, and very sharp!) and showed two boys how to get his miniature Dragonship out of the small river, so nobody would steal it at night.  
  
“Someone asked for you,” said a pale voice behind him, and Stephen turned around to see the younger girl. “A pretty young man, and another one, and a stripetail.”  
  
Stephen frowned, and closed the door of the boat hut. “Did he say what he want?”  
  
“Naaah, but he asked where you are, and he had Jacksie's brother with him. Beesting send them up, uh, North, and they went there... But I thought you should know.”  
  
“The Queen is up North, so I don't worry about them. As for me, shall they come or not, I don't care. But thank you very much Ballet Rat.”  
  
“And they were looking for Jack, too. I saw him earlier. They might find him. He looked awfully sad, and when I asked him, he said it was love.”  
  
Stephen swallowed hardly, but smiled at the girl. The thought of seeing Jack, even by accident, felt bad to him. “I thank you very much for telling me this. Have sweet dreams... and do you know what? We will all have waffles for breakfast! That didn't happen in a while, huh?”  
  
The Lost Boy called Ballet Rat smiled brightly and quickly left to find her friend, who was already preparing their beds. “I told him,” she said.  
  
“Alright,” came the answer. “Then we don't need worry about him.”  
  
Ballet Rat chuckled as she laid down. “Funny,” she said, “almost his words. He don't need worry about _them._ I guess it is like that when people care and pretend not to... Ouch! Stop kicking me! We get waffles tomorrow just because of me...”  
  
  
The three gentlemen walked down the sandy trail until they found two lovers – no friends! - who sat in a tree and talked, about this, that, and most everything else.  
  
“Good evening, Mr Lewis,” said Warnie and looked up to his brother.  
  
“I have to return the greeting! So you have found me... Horace, how lovely to see you,” said the younger Lewis. “And your Majesty,” he began as he jumped down from the most comfortable branch with surprising ease. “I am so glad, and honoured, to see you again.”  
  
“So am I,” said the younger man, and bowed his head, holding it down for a few seconds, and looking up again. “So am I.”

 

After a short, but tense silence, a harsh voice was heard from up above. “What is going on?” asked Aven and followed Jack down from the beautiful large branch, landing beside Horace. “Why are you all here?”  
  
Now, it was the small mammal's turn to speak. “The thing is, His Majesty and I have been looking to find your son, while Mr Lewis, had lost track of his brother through an unpleasant accident with a Trump. Now, we found both ended up at the same place, so we took the pale one, and flew Underneath.”  
  
“Where is Stephen?” asked Artus, who only now remembered his actual reason to travel to Neverland. “The girls said he was up here?”  
  
Aven frowned, and crossed her arms. “The girls? You mean the sweet toothed sister friends, who sat in a fudge tree a mile from here?”  
  
Artus and Warnie nodded.  
  
“I asked them, too, but got no answer. Stephen is around, but doesn't want to see me – or you – apparently. I won't run after him, he's needs time for himself.”  
  
Horace cleared his throat, and raised a small (and fairly cute, but don't tell him I said that!) paw. Aven signalled him to talk.  
  
“Under normal circumstances, I would have said the same. But recently, the young Prince began to behave strangely, and unhappily. For the first time, he skipped class. Of course, boy do such silliness, but he is usually such a mature person, and not particularly young. I am afraid there is something that vexes him.”  
  
The Queen of the Seas and most Isles tilted her dark head and looked at the small animal. Horace helped raising her son from the very first weeks, and taught him all she, Artus, and Bert could not. Aside from Solomon Kaw, he was the royal family's closest confidant on Paralon. Who but him would now if Stephen felt bad? She was his mother, of course, but she had not seen him for nearly two months. And so they walked down South again.  
  
“What was the last subject he followed with interest, Horace?” asked Jack, and the small animal scowled.  
  
“I think it was Biology... yes, we have been studying Mendel. Very interesting, by the standard of the Summer Country. He always liked hearing about the studies and discoveries of other Worlds.”  
  
Jack scowled, he knew this would be a matter some day. And he knew it would also be a matter for him. Aven and Artus didn't see anything significant about it, but of course, these things were not usually taught in the Archipelago.  
  
“Why do you make such a face?” asked Warnie, who got closer to his brother, in a low voice. “Do you think the boy was disturbed by flower patterns?”  
  
Jack sighed, and whispered back: “I told you about Captain Nemo? He looked very much unlike Artus, and very much like Stephen. Some things are too obvious.”  
  
“Do they know?” asked Warnie.  
  
“Yes,” said Jack.  
  
“And what about you?” asked Warnie.  
  
“In some way, I am responsible for the Prince being a half-orphan,” said Jack.  
  
Nothing, asked and said Warnie and Jack.

 


	4. The Wishing Well

It was a night with a surprisingly good deal of rain, and it came suddenly, without a warning. To Warnie and Jack, the air smelled just like it did as they sat on the bench, and had tea with lemons and rum. They followed Artus, Aven, and Horace, who lit small candles as they entered the Lost Boys' village, and in its centre stood a beautiful well.  
  
“Take care not to step on a child,” said a adolescent voice. “Some of them like sleeping in the rain – instead of taking a shower the next morning, you see.”  
  
Aven went over to the well, and Artus carefully followed her. “We have missed you so much,” he said, but got no response. “Do you not feel well?” he inquired then.  
  
“I do, of course. I just wanted to leave for a while. You didn't need to make such a big deal of it.”  
  
Now, Horace growled. “Not a big deal? You skipped your favourite class, stole a false Dragonship, and kept disappearing in a Barrie scenery! It _was_ quite a big deal for all of us.” Raccoons, for some reason, have the habit of staying very calm, until they suddenly use control of their temper. Do not annoy them for too long, as they are cute, but scratch and bite.  
  
Now, Warnie thought it was his time to act, and so he pushed his brother a few steps towards the well, and signalled the raccoon (who could see perfectly in the dark) to follow him to a different place, near a pretty, yet snoring, apple tree.  
  
  
“Stephen,” said Jack, but the Prince looked away. “I have never experienced what you feel right now, and I don't want to pretend I did. But I feel as sad about his death as you.”  
  
The boy sighed, and Aven and Artus looked at each other in surprise. “I know. And I don't blame you, I know what it all has been like, and I know what he knew. But I also know” - and now he gestured at his parents - “what you know. Not for long, but I do.”  
  
Artus frowned, but said nothing. “And that is why you don't want to see us any more?” asked Aven.  
  
“No, that is why I need some time for myself now. I am not mad because it is the way it is...”  
  
Artus smiled, which no one could see in the dark, and touches his arm. “No, you are because nobody told you. It is difficult you see...”  
  
“I see. But it's funny how the three of you gather around me, while I'm merely visiting old friends and taking time to think. What about your problems? I know you have some, and I know I should better go to bed now, I promised to make waffles tomorrow. You may join us,” he added as he left for his tent.  
  
  
Three longbeards stood beside the Wishing Well, in the middle of the night, in the most awkward silence, and wet to the bones. The two men felt even more awkward than the woman who, after a while, took the word.  
  
“You both had no real chance to welcome each other. Jack and I have already talked a lot, Artus.”  
  
The king looked at her, than him, and at her again. He could not see them, but as silly as it might have been, he thought he could somehow sense their expressions. “I thought you'd have had time to talk... your older brother told us a lot about your reason to visit us again. Do you feel less sad now?”  
  
“I think I do. I am very happy to have met you here, both of you. It feels so good to see you, and hear you.”  
  
“I assume you have missed the Queen more than me?”  
“Well, actually I did,” said Jack.  
  
“So did I,” said Artus and held his candle up in Jack's face for a moment. “And yet, I am so glad to see you. You have lost some hair, but gained some weight, as it seems.”  
  
“I already told him so,” said Aven in a huffy voice. “He he can't give a proper answer, despite having been such handsome young lad such a long time ago. Ouch, ha! Do you want me to knock you out Jacksie?”  
  
  
Horace and Warnie sat on a bench as Stephen passed them on the way to his tent. He greeted them politely, but didn't stay to talk.  
  
“What are you going to do with him in the future?” asked Warnie, and Horace swallowed a bite of chocolate.  
  
“The same as usual, we are going to study. He might stay in this place for another few weeks, but in that case I will simply teach all of these children here. They appear to need it, have you ever heard them talk?”  
  
Warnie chuckled, and took a bite from his chocolate, ignoring the rain falling down on him, as it was warm and comfortable and also because he underestimated the reality of the place. He got quite a cold back in the Summer Country, but don't worry about him, it was nothing too serious and he felt fine at about the time Stephen left the Underneath to return to Paralon with Horace and a few exchange Lost Boys, which was about two weeks after the end of our story.  
  
“What is going on between them?” he asked Horace, with a gesture pointing to the well.  
  
“They are friends and lovers, and they sometimes loose track of it. They have missed each other desperately, and now we shall let them enjoy their reunion.”  
  
  
There have been hugs, hits, compliments, insults, and plenty of news, few of them really new. Jack had published a new book about space travel, and Aven discovered a small, but neat island populated only by birds. Artus was spending most of his days eagerly working on a new apple trade agreement with the Elven King, and they described it all in detail, despite being hardly able to follow each other's fast and excited jargon. To describe their relationship was difficult for Horace, and even more so for me. But what can be said is that they loved each other dearly, and missed each other almost as much. Even Aven did so, despite having longed for some time alone, and in that way she was just like Stephen.  
  
Then, they began to talk about their shared memories, their earliest adventures, and fights, and feelings. Aven told a lovely story about Artus first attempt to ask her to go out with him, and Jack told a story about his first dream he had about Aven, but only because she tickled him for so long that he had to give him.  
  
“Tell us about your love letters to Aven,” said Artus and both of them tried to stare at him, and laughed as they failed to do so.  
  
“Your love letters? Did you write love letters to me?”  
  
“Well, yes, I did. Actually, for myself for you to not... they were not exactly well-written. Or charming. Or witty, or romantic...”  
  
“So they were just like you?”  
  
“No, I _am_ romantic, though not as romantic as Artus. Still more than you.”  
  
“Pah,” said Aven, “romance and pink hearts and balloons are men's affairs. I have seas to sail and bird islands to find and a husband and a son, and an admirer in the Summer Country, do you think I have time for romance?” Now, none of them could stop laughing.  
  
“I truly admire you, my Queen – and my King. And I love, and I wish you well. You have such a grand future ahead of you, and so does Stephen.”  
  
Now, there was an unexpected silence between them, and all three of them turned towards the Wishing Well, and held each other by the hands. They did not plan or arrange what to say, they simply knew.  
  
“I wish you love, I wish you well, I wish you happiness, and health. And most of all, I wish for us all to be happy with our lives, with the ways they went, and are meant. I wish us all to feel good where we belong, and that we will be able to move on. I wish you well.”  
  
“I wish you well,” whispered Jack and left them, touched Warnie's arm and signalled him to follow. They left through a playing card that pictured the Kilns in all their warm and cosy beauty. They, too, had waffles the next day, and lots and lots of hot tea.

 


End file.
